


Falling All Over Again

by Sylver_Enigma



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Only in the first chapter, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, the usual angst to expect from a dear evan hansen fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-21 02:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17034652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylver_Enigma/pseuds/Sylver_Enigma
Summary: All my hope is pinned on you.The blare of my alarm startles me awake. I force open my eyes, gasping awake and find myself staring at upside down posters cramming up all the space of otherwise white walls. My body is bent awkwardly against the wooden floor as I hang backwards off the bed, my legs still tangled in the sheets above me.My long dead heart is thumping painfully against my chest. I feel for my pulse in my wrist and and then my neck just to make sure. My fingers are cold and clammy but the skin I touch is warm and blood pulses through underneath.I’m in my room. I’m alive.“What the fuck.”Connor is sent back to his first day of senior year.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a character in this story that was only in the book (which everyone should definitely read, I loved it!) but you don't have to have read the book since the story is the same as the musical.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry if this story is terrible. I've just been so in love with Dear Evan Hansen and after reading the book I just needed to make a thing like this to feel better.

I follow him out of my (former) house. He stumbles as he walks, but he keeps going, away from the house full of broken people, away from the pain he’s reopened anew, but now all that’s left is himself, but he can’t escape himself, and that might be the worst pain of all.

I recognize that look of hopelessness and guilt. The self-deprecation. I’d been there. Any second, he looks like he’s about to collapse in on himself, but he keeps walking dazedly. In his current state, I can’t be sure what he’s about to do or where he’s going.

I want to say something, but I know he won’t hear me. He can’t seem to hear anything right now. His face is eerily blank, save for the tears still streaming down from his eyes. He doesn’t even notice he’s still crying.

We reach a park. According to the sign, it’s Ellison State Park. I probably used to pass by it all the time but I never noticed it existed. He pauses by the sign, and I see a flicker of something cross his face and then it’s gone and he’s moving again. I have a bad feeling that only gets worse when he comes to one of the tallest trees and suddenly I remember our first and last actual conversation.

_“...and I saw this amazing forty-foot-tall oak tree, and I started climbing it, and I just—fell.”_

I remember laughing then, more out of incredulity than anything else. But now I know. There was no way he fell.

But being dead is different than you think it would be. Or maybe it’s just a different case for everyone. Maybe because I didn’t really believe in any god or afterlife, I became stuck in a sort of limbo—or maybe not. I don’t fucking know. I just know that even now, I still have the same thoughts as when I was alive. Nothing was solved and all I left behind was more scars and bad memories.

Of course, there was a tiny reprieve in following Evan around after the Connor Project kickoff assembly. During the assembly put together in memory of me, his speech was the only one that didn’t feel superficial—as funny as that might sound, considering everything he said never happened. We were never friends, we had never actually talked, but his words still rung with sincerity and truth, and crazily enough, I felt like we really were friends as more time passed and I watched him string together our story.

The moment I wrote my name on his cast, I inadvertently placed my burdens on him, but with it, he resurfaced the memories of when my family was actually happy. They remembered me, before I became nothing but a monster to them. Our classmates remembered me as more than the rumors. It could only last so long, but it was nice. And I thought maybe I could pass on with his help.

_Snap out of it,_ I say to him.

He doesn’t hear me.

He’s digging his nails harshly into the bark of the tree and pressing his forehead against it, eyes shut tight, shallow breaths.

Is this the same tree he had fallen from? Can he tell?

I reach out to him, even though I know he can’t see me or feel me, and I can’t stop whatever idiotic thing he’s about to do. He’s looking up now into the branches. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He may not be thinking at all.

He begins climbing.

I saw myself in him, in some ways. I still do right now unfortunately, and if it keeps up, well, on the bright side I won’t be alone stuck in this limbo. But no one wants that. Not me. Not him.

I call out to him again and again. He can’t hear me. No one ever does.

He keeps climbing, higher and higher. I keep watching, helpless as always. A wave a vertigo hits me even though I’m still on the ground and he’s the one forty feet up.

He lets go. I close my eyes.

_I wish that everything was different._

Evan is in front of me. He’s crying so hard it’s a wonder that I can hear his voice so clearly.

_I wish that I was a part of something._

The wave of vertigo morphs into a feeling of nausea and I almost feel as though I’m the one falling, but I’m only a state of being and Evan is falling, and yet Evan is here and I’m in front of him, and I hear his voice, broken and ringing with sadness.

_I wish that anything I said mattered, to anyone._

There’s the rush, the instinctive fear rising up in my chest. I’m falling. I’m drowning. I’m waiting for the end, for the ground to hit, and just before the expected thud—

Evan looks at me.

_All my hope is pinned on you._

The blare of my alarm startles me awake. I force open my eyes, gasping awake and find myself staring at upside down posters cramming up all the space of otherwise white walls. My body is bent awkwardly against the wooden floor as I hang backwards off the bed, my legs still tangled in the sheets above me.

My long dead heart is thumping painfully against my chest. I feel for my pulse in my wrist and and then my neck just to make sure. My fingers are cold and clammy but the skin I touch is warm and blood pulses through underneath.

I let my arms fall back and blood rushes to my head as I take in my surroundings from upside down. My posters of obscure bands and movies. My shelves overflowing with books. My junk art littered about.

I’m starting to get dizzy, hanging upside down this long, and the scars and scabs littered across my arms are throbbing. I itch at them. The pain is physical and real. Distantly, I hear Cynthia calling us down for breakfast.

I’m in my room. I’m _alive._

“What the fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to give kudos and/or comment, although I suck at replying they all give me life :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miguel is introduced this chapter! He's not in the musical, he's in the book but I just liked that Connor had a friend, so he's gonna be in this story.
> 
> I didn't update for so long since I wasn't sure if I should continue this, considering I don't write all that much, and I'm pretty sure the characters will all sound ooc but I tried!
> 
> Also, thanks so much for the comments and kudos! I didn't expect it!

My hand keeps coming back to my wrist, feeling the pulse nestled under the lines of scar tissue. I’m still not registering that I’m alive, even though I clearly am. But I still remember the events that followed my death that should have been today _._

It’s the first day of senior year _again._ But everything that had happened, it couldn’t have been a dream.

I remember Evan Hansen and his stupid letter and the Connor Project and—and…and now that I’m not dead, all of that no longer seems so distant or trivial. I remember the assembly and all the people who suddenly decided I was their best friend only after I died. Because it took me _dying_ to suddenly matter to people.

I dig my nails into my arms, trying to ground myself before I break into a temper out of nowhere at the table. Not that that hadn’t been a normal occurrence when I was alive. I mean, _am_ alive. Or just—it’s still a normal occurrence! I’m just trying to not be angry right now!

I force myself to tune back in to whatever my family is chattering about and hear Zoe muttering, “He’s definitely high.”

I look up sharply at her when I realize they’ve been talking about me, causing her to duck her head, but her expression is unrepentant.

Cynthia speaks with part exasperation and part desperation, “I don’t want you going to school high, Connor!”

I make the mistake of meeting her pleading eyes through my unkempt hair. Her expression holds hope—dying small flickers of hope, but somehow still there—and tired but not yet so tired and defeated as I had seen before (in the future?).

A flash of guilt comes and goes and I really don’t know what to feel about these things that have both happened and have yet to happen so I just look down at my plate.

“I’m not high,” I grumble, wishing very badly that I was.

Shit, what if I _am_ high? Like transcendental levels of high that I think I am sober, and at its peak I had a very realistic trip about Hansen?

I scoff at myself.

Zoe retorts something, but I’m not really listening. I’m too tired for any of this shit. I’m still suffering a headache and I really don’t want to think anymore.

I pick at my food, not hungry. The only one actually eating is Zoe. Larry is too busy on his phone and Cynthia trying too hard to make pleasant with me. I halfheartedly try to get out of going to school, but as I expected, Cynthia doesn’t budge on that front.

I would be more upset if I weren’t also curious to see if the day would play out the same as before. A part of me keeps wondering if it could have just been really a vivid dream.

***

Whatever dazed spell I was under this morning has somewhat lifted by the time I’m in Mrs. Coughlin’s class, and I’m feeling shittier than ever and bored out of my mind. The vivid future-dream pushed aside, I’m back in hell surrounded by enemies on all fronts. I can physically feel everyone judging me and whispering about me.

I sink lower in my seat and scowl at my lap. Why did I even come to class?

I open my phone, just to do _something_ , only to find my phone had been left on my meager contacts list. Miguel’s name stares back at me the moment my phone unlocks. My throat closes up.

Shakily, I decide to type out a message to him.

_First days blow. Hope you’re steering clear of Mr. Nielson’s morning breath._

My mind keeps repeating that it’ll go the same as the first time around. All these memories can’t have come from a dream or a bad trip. But another, smaller part of me is hopeful for something different, hopeful for an actual response. 

I’m staring so intensely at my phone, willing a response to appear yet also dreading it, until I’m called out by the teacher for having my phone out. A familiar swirl of upset creeps around deep in my gut, quickly hardening into anger as she confiscates my phone for the period even though when I look around I can clearly see I’m not the only one on my phone.

Once class is over, I have to remind Mrs. Coughlin that she has my phone. She sighs and hands it back to me, her lips pinched in disapproval as she eyes me. I can see all my faults reflected in her eyes. Because in her eyes—in everyone’s eyes—I’m the bad guy. But that’s what happens when you’re me, right? People only see my faults. I’m _always_ the bad guy.

Do they think I don’t know that? I get it. I know. I believe it too. It doesn’t change anything to know.

I snatch my phone out of her hand and hurry out of there, shoulders hunched, masking my self deprecation with annoyance at the world. People clear out as I pass so I pay no mind to anyone as I walk, instead, looking down at my phone screen, nervous.

I open it and see Miguel responded: a thumbs-up emoji. Just as underwhelming as it had been the first time. Like he couldn’t bother to actually respond. 

And that’s when it finally hits me. I’m reliving my last day all over again.

And as much as I want to believe I gained some wisdom being able to see the consequences of my death, I can’t. I still feel like I’m simultaneously falling and drowning and wishing it would end, wishing to die because living like this is hell, and reliving this day is especially worse.

Where the first time around, I had waited till later to text him back, I don’t wait to text Miguel the next message this time. I say the same three words as last time, simple but heavy with truth and, before, hope. Now I say it with resignation. A tentative goodbye.

_I miss you._

And then I’m stuffing my phone into my pocket and storming to the cafeteria to get the next part of this shitty day over with.

“Love the new hair length,” fucking Kleinman snorts as I’m walking by. “Very school-shooter chic.”

I stop walking immediately and swivel around to face him, but my gaze catches on the all-too familiar boy next to him. Evan Hansen. They both flinch at my sudden movement. Kleinman stands stiff, but Hansen is visibly shaking under my gaze.

I can’t help but stare at this boy I know too much about, who at another time had claimed to know all about me. He knows nothing about me, he never really knew me, but he understands me more than he knows.

“I was kidding,” Kleinman’s irritating voice cuts in, taking my attention away from Hansen. “It was a joke.”

God, I’m so done with today.

I open my mouth and let my anger do the talking. I can’t help it. Not when all my nerves are alight in the worst way and he only grates at them more.

“Yeah, no, it was funny. I’m laughing. Can’t you tell?” I growl. “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?”

I take a heavy step towards him and Kleinman cowers back alongside Hansen. It was my intention to frighten them, but it only hurts. Everything is just a chain reaction of pain around me.

“Freak,” Kleinman’s voice cuts through, and shoves past me.

Everything about today is just so much worse than before, stacking up on everything already toppling over me. My eyes dart to Hansen, who’s begun laughing, high and squeaky, and that’s the final trigger.

Before I know it I’ve said more words I don’t mean and he’s on the floor, terrified, and I’m looking down at him Evan looks about as shaken as I feel. I rush out of there before he can see himself reflected in me.

Evan Hansen was another part of the chain reaction I had sprung into motion in another time.

But what about this time? Even if I know what’s supposed to happen today, I can’t do anything to change it. Bringing pain to others is all I can do. Why did I ever consider otherwise?

I glance back once and see Zoe checking if Evan is okay without any care about how _I_ might be doing.

Even as I think that, I remember the way my death affected Zoe too. I remember sitting in her surprisingly messy room and listening to her strum her guitar and sing, voice heartbroken:

 

_Why should I have a heavy heart?_

_Why should I start to break in pieces?_

_Why should I go and fall apart for you?_

 

Remembering that moment is sobering.

I don’t want to make her the dead kid’s sister. I don’t want Evan to feel forced to live a lie to the rest of the world forever. I don’t want my mother to cling desperately to fake emails to save her.

But what can I do?

As if in response, my phone begins to vibrate in my pocket. I answer it without looking at the caller ID, expecting it to be Cynthia as I grit out, “What.”

“Hey…Connor,” A young male voice speaks. Definitely not Cynthia. Then who—oh. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have called out of the blue but I just thought…so anyway, I’m actually at work right now, on short break, but I just wanted to check up since I saw your texts. Um…”

I’m dumbstruck. I can’t believe my ears. Before, Miguel hadn’t responded to my last text at all. Right?

I process his words. _“I’m actually at work right now, on short break…”_

“I’ve got to get back soon, but I promise to call you later tonight? I’ll be free to talk then,” Miguel’s voice is smooth and bright, just how I remember it, but there’s an edge of nervousness to it. He’s uncomfortable. And I still haven’t spoken.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Cool! I can’t wait.”

“Can’t wait,” I echo dumbly and then I’m listening to the dial tone.

When I move to close my phone, I see a text from him.

_I miss you too._

Before my legs lose out on me, I stumble into a (thankfully empty) bathroom and fall to the floor. I had always thought Miguel had just stopped caring about me, hadn’t even noticed my absence. He hadn’t shown up to any events involving me in the time I followed Evan around. He didn’t come to the assembly to speak, where Evan took up his mantle and became my best and only friend to the rest of the world.

The way he spoke reminded me of someone. I vaguely remember Evan’s mom, from when I first woke up dead. The way she called him at work and spoke hurriedly but full of care and love. It’s not exactly the same situation with Miguel but…I get it. And the ever-building sorrow inside me gives way to a little bit of light.

I don’t realize I’m crying until tears hit my hands where I’m bracing over them. I’m not frustrated or angry or miserable. I’m just…overwhelmed.

***

I can’t bring myself to attend my last few classes or stay inside closed walls after my emotional episode in the bathroom, so I play hooky out by the bleachers in the field. Other stoners hang around there, but they keep their distance so I find my solitude there, and that’s where I stay until the end of school.

When the bell signals for the end of the school day, I’ve calmed down and I know what I want to do. It sort of feels good to have a clear goal.

I make my way to the computer lab and find Evan just finishing up with one of the computers. My gaze automatically shoots to the printer next to me, and I see he’s just printed a paper. It’s _the_ letter. The one that became my last message to the world before I left, when in truth my last mark was left on Evan’s cast.

There’s a squeak of sneakers stopping abruptly and I turn to see Evan is in front of me, having nearly crashed into me. He stares at me with wide eyes, frozen in fear. I feel awkward suddenly and drop my gaze downward where I catch sight of his blank white cast.

Shuffling my feet a little, I try to speak casually, “So, how’d you break it?”

Wow. Very civil. Way to go, Connor. You didn’t even apologize about this morning either, and here you are being an asshole, like always.

“Huh?” Evan says.

I gesture vaguely at his cast and barrel on through my thoughts which are screaming at me to give up and leave before I cause more trouble. “Your arm?”

Evan looks down at it and I wait for him to launch into his ‘funny’ story about being a park ranger and no one finding him or whatever, but he pauses, lost in thought for a moment, and then he mumbles something, but I don’t catch it.

“What?”

“I fell out of a tree.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to go on, but he seems to be finished. I almost want to laugh again, because it’s still the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, but I stick to a simple, “That sucks.”

Evan is surprised by my response, looking up and meeting my eyes for once. We both end up dropping our gaze though, leaving the air thick with awkwardness. Evan is shrinking more and more into himself as I scramble to find something more to say.

What do you say in response to someone saying they fell out of a tree? With the additional knowledge that he didn’t really fall? It’s even harder to say anything more about it when I know these things but I can’t exactly bring them up, so I move on.

“No one’s signed it,” I point out stupidly.

Evan visibly deflates and looks at his cast again. I rub my arm anxiously. It’s obvious I really have no idea what I’m doing and yet I keep going. “I’ll sign it.”

“Oh…you don’t have to—“

“Do you have a Sharpie?”

Evan hands me a Sharpie without a word and I take it as a victory. He doesn’t really offer up his arm, so I lift it up—a bit too roughly evidently because he lets out a small ‘ow.’ I freeze and look up at him, but his face is turned away.

“Sorry,” I mumble though I’m not sure he hears me. I take my time writing my name on the cast, filling the white space so it looks less sad.

“Voila,” I say once I’ve finished. I cap the pen and we both take in the sight of my name displayed proudly across the whole length of his arm. I find myself almost smiling.

I drop my almost-smile when I realize Evan had looked up from his cast at some point to look at me. He responds politely, “Wow. Thank you. So much.”

I nod stiffly. “Now we can both pretend we have friends.”

Evan continues to watch me, with an uncharacteristically intense concentration. It makes my skin prickle a bit because I’m not sure what he’s thinking as he stares at me and my thoughts offer no solace. Thankfully, he quickly realizes himself and ducks his head, his face flushing bright red.

He speaks in a murmur and I want to actually hear what he’s saying the first time rather than asking him to speak up so I lean in.

“We don’t have to pretend…to be friends.”

“We don’t…” I repeat, but I trail off as the words register. “What?”

Evan’s shoulders manage to hike up further than they have been and he’s suddenly rushing past me, speaking so fast his words blend together, “Nevermindit’snothingIdidn’tsayanythingbye.”

I call after him, but he’s out the door in a flash, causing the letter still on the printer to flutter into the air. I move to catch it and try calling him back again, but he’s down the hall and out of sight in seconds.

For the first few seconds of shock, my first thought is that Evan doesn’t want to even _pretend_ we’re friends—I mean, who wants to be associated with the school shooter, right?

But I remember Evan from the other timeline and decide to hold off on that thought. I don’t let myself hope either, or else I’d be setting myself up for disappointment.

Instead, I turn my attention to the letter in my hands.

It’s harder to distance myself from the contents of the letter now that I’m alive again. There’s the familiar buzz of anger and self-loathing, as I fight with myself not to rip the letter up and throw it in the trash.

Evan didn’t write it to make me freak out about it.

So _why_ did he write it then? Why did he have to write about _my_ sister, of all people, if it wasn’t to get me to freak out?

Don’t think about it. Just put it away and give it back to him tomorrow (fuck, there’s a _tomorrow_ for me this time).

I don’t put the letter away. Instead I make myself read it— _actually_ read it, rather than skim through it. Because I hate myself like that so I have to torture myself like this.

I expect to lose my temper when I finally read the full contents of the letter, absorbing each sentence, each word, right up to _Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,_ but I don’t lose my temper. I realize it strikes a chord in me.

What the hell, this _does_ sound like a suicide note I’d write.

Quite of lot of it, if not all, is weirdly true to myself if I can be honest for once. (Screw that. I don’t want to be a part of anything. I _don’t._ )

And now I’m pissed at Evan for writing it, and I’m pissed at myself for being pissed at Evan, and—it’s a downward trend. I stuff the letter into my pocket and leave before any unlucky soul comes around while I’m in a fit of irrational rage.

Then again, anyone who knows about me knows to stay far away from me and printers.


End file.
